Papillon

Chapter 3: Mama

Francis
Two Years Later

The summer after my junior year was spent taking the SATs and interning at a top firm in New York. The SATs were easy—photographic memory and all, that helped. Through the writing section wasn't as easy as others, it was a breeze.

The internship, tougher—mostly because I was a high school student doing a college student's job. But again, I picked things up quickly. It was the one thing I had going for me—my intelligence. Good thing too because otherwise, I had jack shit.

There were only a couple more days left of my internship, with summer almost being done, but I was still working like a dog. It was nearly 7 PM by the time I got home to my tiny two-bedroom apartment where I lived with Mama.

"Mama," I announced my arrival. "Je suis ici." I'm here.

"Kitchen," she replied.

Pulling my tie off my neck, I draped my suit coat on the back of a dining room chair and slipped out of my shoes. There wasn't much room in this apartment, and most things in here served a double purpose. Chairs were also tables when I needed more space, or shelves, or dressers. Everything was everything.

Mama was stirring something on the stove when I walked in, looking pale and skinny as she always did, but somehow still beautiful.

"Mama," I chided softly, taking the ladle from her hands. "I've told you not to get up."

"I was fine today, bijou," she said, running a hand through my hair even though I was taller than her.

"Go sit down," I nodded to the couch, and she sighed, making her way over. From the way she collapsed into it, I knew she was hurting from the exertion. It made me violent.

Mama was weak. She wasn't born weak, but she was beaten and bruised and bloodied so much by my useless sperm donor that she became this way. When I could, I took the beatings for her, and it continued until I had saved up enough money for both of us to leave. To America.

Land of the free. Home of the brave.

What a fucking joke.

Mama had made tomato soup from a can, but it wasn't enough for both of us. I poured it into a bowl and handed it to her on the couch, alongside some toasted baguette.

"Where's yours?" She asked softly.

"Company dinner," I lied and settled down next to her. "I'm stuffed."

"How nice," she smiled and because I couldn't stand the weakness in her eyes, I turned on the TV. Mama loved watching romantic comedies. They gave her an escape, a momentary respite from the pain and the emptiness. She liked when I watched them with her, even if I wasn't paying attention and just working on my laptop.

Today though, I paid attention. I wasn't sure why, maybe it was because Mama looked extra frail today. Or because her hair seemed even more gray. Or because there was one more wrinkle on her face than normal.

At night, I tucked her into bed and kissed her forehead.

"Tu brilles, mon bijou. Tu es la seule chose que je vois," she whispered, voice strained and tired.
You shine, my gem. You are the only thing I see.

"Tu es la seule chose dont j'ai besoin. Bonne nuit, Mama," I whispered back. You are the only thing I need. Good night.

Rich & Hungry

Christian: La Mer.

Our friends group chat was aptly named because everyone in there was rich except for me, and I was always going hungry. Though, that wasn't the exact reason. It was just because a lot of what we all did together was get together for food.